Anybody etches the longwave, tadpole lyrical, and its a poemΒ Β (woa- teakettle, tweaker) Satellite poem, thunder poem, ******* poem. Sevens sluttiest angel writes a eulogy so beautiful that we give her the title of funeral director. We just give it away. (Its still only a eulogy) I have ten toes and ten fingers. Ive counted on them. I wrote a poem about getting a bikini wax, and its still only a poem. A joke. Only tadpole lyrical. I wish it had a revolutionary hermit to choke it with fingers that taste like black pepper and motor oil, and then to rake its fall crumbles into ruffles, and then all aboard the sci-fi fantasy. /Radiant, radio the masses, raffia slipping, I got the zipper of my winter coat stuck in orbit, you sea/Ive got a poem to write about synthetic jungles deep underneath our cities, lush with fiber-optic wire, you say. Air rich, the mountain. Find yourselves in dungenous traps: dead-blue thou art.